Legend
by Catie
Summary: Have you ever had your world turned upside down?


A/N: _Legend_ is my attempt at an OC character that is not a Mary Sue. I know that the easiest way to avoid that (usually) is to make a male character, but I decided to make my job harder (plus I know the inner workings of the female brain much better). This is only the first chapter…but please tell me if I'm doing a good job at it, and, if not, what I should change.

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LEGEND

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I was afraid of verbal daggers 

I was afraid of the calm before the storm

I was afraid of my own bones…

- Sympathetic Character, Alanis Morsette

Anywhere and everywhere I went, anyone that I met was likely to think there was something mighty strange about me. If I stopped to talk to them, the more pleasant of people would indulge me with a brief and distantly polite conversation, mostly about such topics as the weather, a puzzled look gracing their face the entire time. Their eyes would bore into me as we spoke, as if they thought if they looked hard enough, they might find out why I seemed so odd. After a while, though, they always would step slightly away from me, still helplessly befuddled by my nature, bid me good day, and walk swiftly away. The less pleasant of people would often just stare at me as if there was something rather vile smelling under their noses, and if they spoke, they would only do so in short, clipped sentences.

I, for one, could never quite understand why people always seemed to think me so different. I was neither pretty nor ugly, with limp brown hair clipped haphazardly at my shoulders, and pale blue eyes that tended to water from allergies. My skin was pale and always burned red as a lobster in the summer sun, and then got chapped and rosy in the cold, blowing winter. My face and body were dusted with freckles that tended to multiply every time I went outside. The only thing slightly striking about my appearance was the deep dimples that cut into my cheeks when I smiled, but they seemed to only make me appear more strange than people already thought I was. I wasn't fat or thin, short or tall, and when I assessed my self in the mirror, I always came to the conclusion that there was really nothing that should or would make me stand out from the crowd at all

I didn't seem to have any real talents, either. In school, I did decently, just enough to get by. I couldn't draw or write for beans, and my singing voice sounded dull and croaking. Sports were never my forte as well. I wasn't clumsy or fumbling, mind you, but nothing in them seem to strike my interest. Yes, I could kick a football, or hit a tennis ball with a racket decently, but there was always something missing from them, a feeling that I could never quite explain.

My mother, however, was another story. Maybe she was the reason everyone thought I was so odd. She was what most people called an eccentric, and the odd energy seemed to radiate off her just as much, if not more so, than it did off me. It seemed, however, that there was something she had that I didn't, because everyone seemed to flock to her mystery, instead of straying from it. Not that I could blame them. My mother was a beautiful, vibrant person, with positive feeling that seemed to flow off her skin in waves. _Her_ blue eyes twinkled with life, _her _hair waved elegantly from her head, a lively chestnut color, _her _skin was flawless and creamy, _her_ body was tall, slim, and effortlessly graceful. In the spring, her garden always seemed the loveliest with flowers that never wilted; the inside of our house was so clean it sparkled (Though I had no contribution to that. If you looked in my room, you would think it belonged to a different household, it was so messy), and her food was so heavenly that she had gone from waitress to four star chef when she first searched for a job. As much as I tried, though, I could never be jealous, because every time my mother walked into my room, with her floaty, air light dresses and gauzy, flowing scarves, something stopped me. The charm and warmth seemed to seep off her skin and into my heart, and I was helpless.

"Alice," my mother would often say to me, "What do you think about magic?" I, well known for my logical, concrete thinking would tell her that I never thought about magic, because there was no such thing. I always said it so matter-of-factly that that there was never any room for argument. I was always confused, as well, when she would then pat me on the hand, with a sad little frown forming on her lips that just didn't belong on so pretty a face, then stand up, and in a swooshing and sweeping of fabric, leave the room.

It never occurred to me that she could be asking me this for a reason. Often, on days when I was feeling hurt and alone, when I came home for school, I would find my mother waiting for me on the front steps, home from work early. When I saw her, I would drop my backpack on the stone path that led up to our home and run to meet her. Her arms would come around me instantly, putting me in a circle of protection and warmth, and she whispered to me words of comfort that soothed my hurt feelings like a healing balm. How she knew that she needed to be there I did not know, but for some reason I never wondered about it. 

On one such occasion, when I was almost 15 years old, she asked me again. She hadn't asked me in almost six months, and it took me quite by surprise. "Alice?" she said quiet voice, so quietly that I had to strain to hear her.

"Yes?" I replied, my fists scrubbing at the salty tear tracks on my face roughly.

"What do you think of magic?" She looked at me with silent determination for a moment, then shifted her gaze down to her slender, well-manicured hands, waiting for my answer.

Caught off-guard, my eyes widened and I replied, stuttering, "I-I don't know, I guess, I mean…" I paused, and then said the one sentence that would change my life forever. "I suppose anything's possible…"

She looked at me wonderingly, then stood up and smiled the kind of mega –watt smile celebrities always seem to sport and clapped her hands together in childlike glee. "I…good," she said, the dancing lights in her eyes looking like twin stars. "Good. Good." She nodded twice to emphasize her words. Then, with one last joy filled look at me, she rushed inside, the jingle of the bangles on her arms singing sweetly.

I was shocked. No, I was floored. My mother may have been a fairly enthusiastic woman, but I had never seen her so happy in all my life. Even in her happiest moments, there had always been some lingering sadness in her eyes that never seemed to go, like it had taken up residence in there a long time ago, and it wasn't going to leave any time soon thank-you-very-much. Yet that day, the day that sealed my fate, there had been none, just pure, radiant joy that spread from the corner of her lips into her eyes, and her face, and her whole entire being.

I followed her into the house in a daze, as if my body knew something had happened, that I had changed something important, and I suddenly felt the bottom of my stomach drop out. It was as if this had happened in unknown anticipation of the fact that the stability, and very the support of my life was beginning to falling out.

That night, my mother sat at the desk in the study, writing on old, yellowed paper that looked oddly what my second year teacher had called parchment, and she wrote with a long, plumed quill pen, every so often dipping the sharpened tip into a bottle of violet ink. I tiptoed into the room without so much as making a creak in the floorboard, and peered over her shoulder to see what she was writing. It was a short and simple message, and it read as such:

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Albus,

I think she's ready.

Sincerely,

Vivian George

I tiptoed my way back out of the room, quietly shutting the study door behind me.

***

Some time into the night I lay awake, even though I knew I had school the next day.

I was "ready"? What could that mean?

I turned the thought over and over in my head, trying to understand, to see it from different angles. It seemed, though, the more I thought about it, the more it confused me. I heard a creak in the floorboards coming from downstairs, signaling my mother was awake as well.

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Creak Crick - irrcck…

Silence, then the sound of footsteps retracing their path, slowly climbing up the stairs. 

I was about to throw the covers over myself and squeeze my eyes shut, feigning sleep, when something caught my eye. A large tawny owl flew on silent wings past my window, something gripped tightly in its claws. I sat on the edge of my bed and stared, long and hard. The owl turned to look at me, staring, too, with an almost intelligent gleam in its eyes. I was breathing in harsh pants that sounded deafening to my ears. Then I heard my mother's footsteps directing themselves towards my room. I jumped into the bed as quick as I could, gathering the covers tight around me. My blood pulsed loudly. I slapped a hand over my mouth in an attempt to stop my heavy breathing.

By the time my mother came in to see if I was asleep, my breathing had calmed to an approximation of the soft, light breathing of a sleeping person, but my heart beat still thundered in my ears.

***

The last day of school. The one day I always anticipated. I never enjoyed school much, because I got average grades and wasn't involved in sports or drama club or science fair, or anything that would give me a special group of friends. My only friend, in fact, was another outcast like me. His name was Jake, and he was tall and as skinny as a beanpole. His hair and face and eyes were all pale, pale faded colors, and his smile was hesitant and shy – _so_ shy, on his thin and constantly chapped lips. He always carried a notebook around with him - _everywhere_, and he would sketch and write and describe everything he saw. He was fairly smart, but didn't talk much. That didn't bother me, though, because I liked silence. 

We would always walk home together, and he would show me his notebook – he never showed it to anyone else but me, he said, and I guess that made me feel a little special. During lunch, when he handed it to me I would smooth back the crisp clean white pages and look at the sketch he had made of our math teacher giving a lecture, or read the poetry or short story he had so carefully crafted and written. I would never give him any feedback unless he asked for it (and he never did), and would instead just smile at him as my praise.

When Jake and I walked home together, usually we didn't talk, but just took in our surroundings in a silent companionship. It was the same way that last day of school, as well, except every once and a while I would asked him if he wanted one of the Hershey's kisses I had won in the end of the year raffle.

The slightly nauseous feeling in my stomach that I had had since that odd incident with my mother had not gone away, but had settled down to a dull ache. As we walked down the road towards the house the ache worsened again. At the front gate we stopped and he smiled his small smile, and turned to go. I popped another kiss into my mouth. I opened the gate and walked through it and down the stone path. My stomach began to tie itself into knots. Perspiration gathered on my forehead when I unlocked the front door and turned the handle. As I walked through the door I clung to the straps of my knapsack like a lifeline.

That's when I saw him. An old man, sitting on the large, plush armchair in the middle of the room. The hair on his head and of his beard was snow white, and so long that it touched the floor. He wore a blue robe like garment made out of what looked like satin, and a tall pointy hat of the same color and material. His eyes were a beautiful sky blue color, and twinkled merrily, as if laughing at some private joke.

I stood stock-still. My tongue swept over the cool sweet silky smooth of the chocolate left in my mouth. "Hello," said the man. I stared.

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--End Chapter 1--


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